Chamber never believed in romantic fairy tales. And certainly not in the concept of soulmates destined by fate. That system — the predetermination, the invisible thread of destiny aligning perfect pairs according to mysterious algorithms. Everything you write on your body appears on the body of your other half. The world called it a miracle. He called it a nuisance. An unnecessary, intrusive vulnerability.

The first writings began appearing in his youth. Silly doodles, careless words — far too human for someone who had already decided to be alone. He erased them, hid them under shirt cuffs, beneath fine fabrics and bracelets. Chamber learned to wear gloves even in summer, long-sleeved shirts even in Los Angeles. He blocked out emotions the way he blocked the recoil of a shot — precisely, coldly, efficiently.

One day, between missions, he was going through papers on his desk when he felt a light tingling on his wrist. He automatically ignored it. Not now.

But the tickling didn’t stop — it grew more distinct, more deliberate. He rolled up his sleeve. And there, slowly appearing on his wrist… were kittens.

Drawn in pen, blue, slightly crooked, but with little hearts in their eyes. One was holding a sign: "Cat day: 1, boredom: 999." And underneath it — another line: "If you’re seeing this — sorry, just goofing off :')"

Chamber froze.

He didn’t know what struck him more: the message itself, or the fact that it wasn’t meant for him. Not as a message, anyway. It was someone’s stream of consciousness. Someone having fun. Someone living, without thinking that their handwriting was showing up on someone else’s skin.